At Length

By David Alan Peterson
May 24, 2012

At length…
We’re all just sitting here, profane or pious
Pretending hard not to notice
Time running wild – right on by us
Like a jester in some coarser court of Chance
Thumbing his nose as he goes gallivanting past
Dispassionate, unaffected
By the relegated here, who have come at long last
To understand the meaning of rejected

All in good intentions on the pavement now
I laid those bricks myself, emphatically
Where bereavement’s rut continues somehow
If even somewhat less dramatically
At the wax museum of rust–gilded recompense
Banished are we from hopeful expectations
Of uncommon courtesy’s common sense
And any altruistic inclinations

Wild-winded night!
A raven croaks his course staccato caw
And passes here, nearby in fluttered flight
Evokes a deep-dark eerie sense of awe
Which, though palpable, cannot be uttered right
By those of us just sitting, pensive, here
Left bereft and slowly losing strength
Pretending hard that we in nowise fear
The jester who is passing us at length